(2.11)

i don’t remember why i was digging, but i remember my fingernails clawing at cool dirt beneath wet grass in the moonlight. i was on a hill where i grew up, but damned if i can remember what hill. the one in my backyard? the one in my front? the one heading to my school? likely one of those three, but i can’t remember. what i remember as clearly as if it is happening now is the tension of force against my nails as the earth and the weed we call grass are invading the space between my skin and my keratin as i scrabble them away from the hole i am digging. i can feel the dew wetting my knees, so it must be near dawn but the sun isn’t up yet; since i am digging into one of those three hills, i know that it is still some form of night – the sun comes over those hills in the morning. the chill is bringing on a shiver and the smell of decaying leaves, the scent of autumn death, is just out there tickling my senses. i shiver again, but i am not sure it’s from the cold. i have no idea what i am digging up. or is it burying? but i am here doing it. i need that little tool that folds out of mom’s nail clippers to dig out the dirt. or maybe the nail brush in the shower. i miss that brush. i close my eyes as my clean nails type this, i sigh and try to conjure the objective of my digging. all i can recall are sensations. nothing more. i am feeling a tug to return someday, somemorn, somenight.